I turned the final page toward the crowd so everyone could read it. It was not a deed. It was a letter in Howard’s handwriting, dated the week before he died, and Rosalind’s smile froze as the first line was read aloud. Dylan lunged for the paper, but I pulled it back and said, “Someone opened this envelope, and I would like to know who.”

Nobody answered. Then a young woman at the back raised her hand, shaking. “I did,” Tessa whispered. “Dylan told me to.” The lawn went completely silent. Vernon turned to his daughter with a stunned face. Then a car door slammed in the driveway, and a woman in a navy suit walked toward us carrying a thick folder, and Dylan went pale.